


The Odds

by meils121



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 15:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17045990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meils121/pseuds/meils121
Summary: Eliot knows the odds.He always knows them: the chance of a broken bone (5% in the average fight).  The chance of Parker tasing someone she doesn’t like (87%, and that’s only because he and Hardison are around sometimes to stop her).  The chance of Sterling showing up unannounced and unwelcome and throwing a wrench in everyone’s plans (63%, the bastard).





	The Odds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musingmidge77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingmidge77/gifts).



          Eliot knows the odds.

          He always knows them: the chance of a broken bone (5% in the average fight).  The chance of Parker tasing someone she doesn’t like (87%, and that’s only because he and Hardison are around sometimes to stop her).  The chance of Sterling showing up unannounced and unwelcome and throwing a wrench in everyone’s plans (63%, the bastard).  

          He knows the odds.  And it was only a matter of time and circumstance before his luck ran out.  Moreau had, of course, been at the top of his list of people most likely to kill him.  A bullet to the head - clean, quick, simple - was the most likely cause.  

          He knows the odds.  And yet -

          The warehouse.  He knew the second he stepped foot in there that the odds had changed, that what he _knew_ was no longer certain.  Moreau had stacked the deck and weighted the dice.  Eliot’s odds went out the window, the careful calculations erased.  And now he’s left trying to fit together the new pieces.  Trying to cobble together enough information to make the right decision.

          There isn’t enough information, though.  It’s been years since he worked for Moreau, years in which Moreau has undoubtedly changed how he does certain things.  Nobody ever got that far without staying on their toes.  Eliot doesn’t know how many men Moreau will have sent - too many, probably, but that’s not concrete enough for him to work with.  He doesn’t know what weapons they’ll have.  He doesn’t know if Moreau’s already onto them.  He just doesn’t know.

          It’s fucking scary.

          Nate looks at him in the warehouse, one arm around the Italian.  “Eliot -”

          Nate runs calculations, but they’re different than the ones Eliot runs.  He’s coming to the same conclusion anyways.  For a moment, an expression of fear crosses over his face, followed by a flicker of grief.  

          Eliot’s already made his decision.  They can all die in this warehouse, or he can get Nate and the Italian out.  As for him -

          There was always an 8% chance that a situation like this was how things ended.

          “Get her out of here.”  Eliot says, and he refuses to let Nate try and find another way.  There isn’t another way, at least not one that doesn’t end up with the three of them dead.  

          He figures he can take out three of Moreau’s men without problem.  That’s not what he’s worried about.  He’s worried about the others, the ones that he can’t take out immediately.  

          Eliot doesn’t like guns.  He doesn’t like their odds, doesn’t like the way they escalate things that don’t need to be escalated.  But right now, the gun in his hand might be the only chance (2%, and that’s being generous) of him getting out of here.

          His mind goes someplace else in the three minutes it takes.  He knows he’s shooting.  He can see the bodies dropping and the bullets flying.  But it’s like a different person - or perhaps, more accurately, the old Eliot - has taken over.  His muscle memory takes over.  His brain goes blank except for the very specific skills he needs to get him through this.  

          It’s over, suddenly, and Eliot’s left staring at the body of the man who tried to take his place.  He wonders what the odds of that happening were.

It’s not until later, when the world around him has settled down and quiet has seeped back in that Eliot realizes something.

He’s been shot.  Now, the chances of that happening were at 99%, so he’s not exactly _surprised_ by this development.  But he is a little shocked that it took him so long to notice.  Adrenaline really is something.  

But then Moreau shoots the Italian, and Eliot’s too late yet again.  He watches - anger sweeping over his body like a wave - as the plane takes off and takes Moreau to yet another safe haven.  Men like Moreau get away with their crimes.  Men like Eliot don’t.

Nate calls an ambulance for the Italian and tries to convince Eliot to ride along.  But there’s a first aid kit in the trunk of the car, and besides, it’s more of a graze than a true bullet hole.  

“The others - they don’t need to know what happened in the warehouse.”  Eliot says, wound temporarily patched.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Nate says.  And maybe that’s the answer Eliot was looking for, but it still feels wrong.  Parker’s cheerful and chatty when she arrives, gloating about how awesome she and Hardison were.  Eliot forces a smile on his face.  

He ends up home alone that night.  The wound has been cleaned and stitched up - Eliot far from squeamish about such things.  He’ll live, of course.  He’s been shot before, and he’ll be shot again.  Somehow, this wasn’t the last time.  Wasn’t the end of his life.  

Eliot grabs a beer out of the fridge and collapses on the couch.  The odds of him getting drunk are hovering around 50-50 right now, ready to tip in one direction or the other depending on his mood.

          He’s angry, mostly, a sort of fury that has settled in his bones and made itself quite at home.  It’s deeper and stronger than it’s been in years - perhaps since he stopped working alone and started working with a team.  It’s the anger he used to carry with him every day, an anger at the world and at his situation and at himself.  

          He’s angry that Moreau got away, again.  Angry that Moreau didn’t shoot him.  He knows what that means, knows that Moreau knows his men are dead and has more or less just offered him his old job back.  It’s not exactly what Eliot was expecting him to do, but Moreau has always liked surprising people.  He’s angry that he ever started working with Moreau in the first place.  He’s angry that the Italian dragged the team into this mess.

          It hurts, this anger.  It stabs his heart and twists in his chest, and Eliot’s starting to drown in it.  With the anger comes guilt, seeping out of his every pore.  And isn’t that just something?  A few years ago, something like what happened in the warehouse would have been just another day on the job.  A few dead bodies meant nothing for so long, and now Eliot knows just how far he fell.  His heart aches at the thought of all those men lying dead and their bodies burned by the warehouse explosion.  It doesn’t matter they were trying to kill him.  What matters is that he killed again, years after he swore to himself that he wouldn’t do that anymore.  That those days were over.  That he was a different person.

          But he’s no different.  And, Eliot thinks, he never will be.  He didn’t flinch when Nate looked at him.  He didn’t ask if there was another way.  And maybe that’s because he knew there wasn’t another way, and maybe it’s because his heart is still as cold as it was before the team.

          He’s aware, faintly, of his phone ringing.  He considers smashing it to pieces instead of answering it, especially when Nate’s number flashes across the screen, but he doesn’t.  

          “What?”

          “Thank you.”  Nate says.  Eliot freezes.  

          “What?”  He says again.

          Nate sighs.  “For what you did.”  He clarifies.  “You - you saved my life.  And I know you violated just about every ethical code you have.  I don’t want you thinking that I’m ignoring that.”

          “Nate-”  Eliot can’t speak for a moment.  “I can’t do it again.”  He says, and his voice is dangerously close to cracking.  

          “I won’t ask you to.”  Nate says, and Eliot knows that voice well enough to know he’s telling the truth.  

          “Okay.”  He says.  The guilt still lays heavy over him, but it’s not as bad as it was a few minutes ago.  “I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

          And that’s more of a truth than he ever thought he’d say out loud.  But maybe it needs to be said, after everything that’s happened the past few weeks.  

          “You’re not.”  Nate says, the certainty in his voice a welcome break from the way Eliot’s thoughts are wavering back and forth.  

          “Okay.”  Eliot says a second time.  “That’s - good.”

          He hangs up then.  His beer is still half-full.  He stares at it for a moment before dumping the rest of the contents down the sink and heading for his bed.  Sleep won’t come easy tonight, but he’s not going to feed his monsters either.  

          He’ll get up tomorrow, and things will be all the same and completely different.  Of that, he’s 100% certain.

 


End file.
